Let Me Be Your Hyacinthus
by Lanoire
Summary: Grantaire reviews his Greek mythology. Super-short.


 Disclaimer: Grantaire, Prouvaire, and Enjolras aren't mine.

 Notes: Um... the whole story of Hyacinthus is a real myth. Um... yeah. Another short written late at night. Someday I'll write a long Les Mis fic, I swear. 

When I was oh so much younger, I would spend time reading the mythology of the Greeks. My father liked to read them to me, until it became clear to him that I needed to spend my time doing more productive things than reading foolish stories. But I loved those stories, and remembered them all. When I moved to Paris, as soon as I had enough money, I bought a volume containing those stories. It was a nice one, with a picture on the inside cover of those divine twins, Apollo and Artemis. It was a wonderful picture, really, and I was always amazed by the beauty of the twins, when I lacked any beauty of my own.

   Artemis was the sort of girl I fancied to fall in love with. In the picture she rested her perfectly shaped cheek on one delicate fist, leaning her whole body in that direction. Her hair was brown and the lovely curls spilled down over her bared shoulders. Her feet peeked from the bottom of her flowing robes and her toes were gracefully pointed, her ankles delicately crossed. The hand she didn't rest on was reached over her shoulder, to clasp the hand of Apollo, who stood behind her. 

  Apollo was truly a vision. He had that noble squared jaw and arched nose. He stood behind his sister, one hand grasping hers and the other reaching for his golden arrows. His hair was curled and golden, his eyes a piercing blue. His shoulders were broad and his chest squared, and while Artemis looked down at the ground, Apollo stared forwards, at the horizon, or a dream, or some unreachable ideal. 

   One of the first pleasures I discovered upon reaching Paris was that that alcohol provided. Suddenly, with it, I could be whoever I wanted. I could say whatever I wanted and blame it on the drink. I soon learned just how far I could go before losing control. Just far enough to keep control over my mind, but far enough to drown out any pain. It was in that green-tinted fog that I first saw my God.

   It was in that café called Musain. He strode purposefully and I felt sure that he must have come from my book at home. The sharp blue eyes, the broad shoulders, the golden curls... I couldn't help myself. 

   "Apollo! Fair Apollo!" I had called, and by some miracle, he had turned. I had gestured him over to my table and he had come, looking disdainful. "Fair Apollo, where has Artemis gone?"

   "Are you a fool?" he had asked coldly, those blue eyes like ice. He had turned and walked away, and I had known then that I needed him. I needed to have that God for myself. 

  He returned many times to the Musain, and though I acted drunken and uninterested, I did listen to what he had to say. But it wasn't important. I called to my Apollo, begged him to sit with me, but he ignored me, and kept at his speeches. Soon he gathered a little group, who would meet in the back room of the Musain. So, I started going there to drink. I soon found the Corinth, another place he had his little group went to meet. He was planning a revolution. So brave, my Apollo.

  There was a poet, named Prouvaire, who followed Apollo as dutifully as I, though he actually cared for Apollo's cause. One day, I happened to walk with him when I, by chance, left the café at the same time as he. As we walked, a dirty little gamine ran up to us, a large bouquet of flowers clutched in one grubby fist. 

   "Please M'sieur," she said, looking at Prouvaire with pleading eyes. "Buy a flower?"

   "Of course!" said Prouvaire, thrice trapped by his love of girls, flowers, and pity for the poor. He picked out a lovely purplish one and the girl scampered happily away, his money in hand.

  "What is that?" I asked, eying the flower. 

  "It's a hyacinth," Prouvaire said happily. 

   The name rang a bell in my mind, and when I returned home, I opened up my book of myths, pausing only for a moment to look at Apollo before flipping through. It didn't take me long to find it, for it was one of the tales of Apollo, many of which I read often. I had, somehow, long overlooked this one, though. 

  The story of Hyacinthus went thusly: 

  There was once a Spartan prince called Hyacinthus, with whom the god Apollo fell deeply in love with. They fished together, hunted together, and did various sports together. (Here I wondered if they planned revolutions together, or drank together, but I continued) One day, they were throwing a discus (the book included a picture, and here I thought that a discus looked rather like a plate. I continued) Apollo threw it far and high and Hyacinthus hurried to catch it, only to be struck in the head. (This I thought rather foolish of him, but, again, I continued) Apollo rushed to the fallen youth, hoping to somehow save his young lover, only to hold Hyacinthus in his arms as he died. Weeping, Apollo created a flower, the hyacinth, from the blood of his young lover, so that his name could forever live.

  While I thought Hyacinthus a tremendous fool for allowing such a thing to happen to him, I knew that I would gladly die, if it would make my Apollo love me, if it would make my Apollo weep. 

  I rose early the next day, and began drinking much earlier than I normally did, so that I was drunker than usual when it came time for Apollo to hold his meeting. He was standing on a chair giving a speech that I am sure was moving for someone who cared when I raised my head from the table.

  "O, Apollo!" I cried, my cheeks flushed from drink. "Let me be your Hyacinthus!" 

   "Return to your drink, Winecask," Apollo said scornfully. "Return, and let us continue."

   So cruel, my Apollo. 


End file.
